It’s hard to say when the heroin took hold of my life. It could have first occurred at conception when my mother, the junkie, chose to royally fuck over her child. Or it could have been just after the Ed Sullivan Show stopped being produced. Who’s to be the judge? Surely, not me. Not someone who, despite all odds, became a heroin addict living in a dilapidated house on the east side of Montauk. So this is where I, your humble narrator, begin the story. A broken man, in a broken home, leading a broken life. I’ll try my best not to bore you. Before I start, I have to meet someone though. Someone we will all come to know at some point in our lives.
In the beginning…
I awoke the next morning to find the hooker from the night before drooling on my pillow. I contemplated making my great escape only to realize I had broken the cardinal rule of buying a prostitute for a “good time”: Never ever let them know where you live. I gathered all of my possessions and left her the money she was owed. I would never see that house again. I figured such a shit hole, even if it was my shit hole, was a shit hole all the same. I walked for hours across town. I passed record stores playing the newest Dylan album. I passed the car dealerships where the weasels were dressed up in a suit and tie. Once I reached the underpass, I knew it was time to sleep.
She came to me in the middle of the night, begging me to leave. I had never seen this woman before, but she kept saying over and over “you need to come with me right now or you are going to die.” I figured she was another junkie, until I noticed her shoes. They were brand new and reflected the streetlights with an omniscient glow. I mumbled some incoherent sentences at her and rubbed my eyes. All of the sudden she was gone. I ran from under the shelter into the night air and witnessed her sitting in a sky blue Ford convertible. She was wearing sunglasses even though it was nighttime. She kept repeating, “Get in. Get in.” What attracted me to her was the way she pronounced “get”. It was almost as if each time she spoke, a certain Irish flair rolled off her tongue. I did just as she told. I got in.
The coast was beautiful at that time of night, each star twinkling with a certain lackluster. I honestly couldn’t believe a perfect stranger was letting a clearly drugged addled lunatic sit not five feet away from her. In my state of intoxication, I couldn’t make out most of what she was saying. I did my best to nod politely and keep my eyes on the stars. After her hours of constant talking, we came to a stop on a beachside outlook. We weren’t even there for two minutes when the dark sky turned a blistering magenta. I had never seen the sunrise before in my life. I looked over into the woman’s eyes and the same thing was occurring. Her dark pupil was bursting to light like a coastal sunrise. And then she said the one thing I could understand from that entire night. “How can you live like this?”
All of what I have just recounted to you was the most lucid trip I have had to this date, and I am just now realizing that one Vonnegut quote. Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt. When I awoke the next afternoon, I found the concrete ground under me to be comforting. I didn’t mind the sound of car horns firing off mechanical obscenities. And it was all because of this stranger. Of course, I realize now she was not real, but I like to think someone sent her to me. I’ve never believed in religion, but it’s entirely possible someone, somewhere was reaching out to me. I gathered my possessions once again, and made my way into town. I was ready to face the day for only one reason. For once, I had seen it begin.