Honest Addict, Chapter Thirteen

13

Downtown Los Angeles glittered through the smog. It had always struck him as beautiful, rising up so abrupt, metallic and vertical out of a sea of drab industrial wasteland. Northern California almost by definition prides itself on its disdain of the south, especially LA, which many northerners believe is filled with shallow, materialistic people. Peter had never understood this. To him, Los Angelinos were impeccably real: they liked living in a perfect climate, idolized good looks and splendor and lived in one of the few major cities where you could park your automobile almost anywhere you pleased. True, millions were living unsustainably in a desert, sucking dry water resources that had to travel hundreds of miles via aqueduct, botox, breast implants and plastic surgery were the order of the day and the city was polluted with the particulate matter of its endless supply of cars. But for all its perceived shortcomings the place and the people were authentic, an undervalued commodity.

It was eleven-thirty. First post at Santa Anita was at 12:45. The city of Arcadia was fourteen miles north of downtown, so he figured that although there was plenty of time to get a hotel before the races began, it was prudent to head directly to the track. It would give him an opportunity to consult the program before racing began.

There was a complete absence of traffic, a surreal condition for anyone who is familiar with Southern California highways during daylight hours. Most folks were staying close to home, Peter surmised. Probably the rest of the week would be relatively slow. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the track. He took his time parking and meandered into the facilities, his mind elsewhere in slightly hung over daydreaming.

It was a perfect day for racing. The temperature was a welcoming seventy-two degrees. No clouds were present in the azure sky, though a single jet traced a thin vapor trail overhead. The turf, having just been watered, smelled musty and fresh; it was a scent that evoked feelings superior even to those achieved during the act of gambling, the perfume of anticipation.

A surprising number of patrons milled about. There were, generally speaking, two types. The usual track junkies were present: the voluble gaggle of diminutive, old Asian men, the well dressed blacks, the motley, decrepit Caucasian retirees and the Hispanic cowboys outfitted in denim. In addition to these there were the less regular track aficionados, the ones who patronized the ponies six or seven times a year, and always on Kentucky Derby day. These were well represented by a group of three twenty-something men accompanied by their dates. The young men were dressed in pseudo-fifties hipster fashion, complete with starched, short sleeved, open collared shirts displaying martini glasses or geometric patterns. They also wore dark slacks, well shined shoes and slightly cocked fedoras or Panama hats. Peter had thought the whole “swingers” phase had been pretty well done away with, but clearly that wasn’t the case. The ladies wore floral patterned summer dresses, high heeled shoes and wide brimmed, decorated sun hats. They weren’t naturally gorgeous women but their presentation made them look beautiful, especially in contrast to the rest of the betting public. A feeling of envy welled up in Peter’s chest, a relative stranger.

Properly handicapping races had never been his strong suit, so he had given up on it long ago. Mostly the horses were chosen by who the jockey or the trainer was, or, if there was no more logical method, by name or color. Grays were a particular favorite, if only because they were easy to follow around the track with a naked eye. Horseracing was a terrible bet and he knew it. But it was passive, easy and entertaining as hell. And it was the one gaming activity that always took place outside, which made it a pleasant change.

Unfortunately for Peter, the wagering results belied the temperate conditions. The first two races, he bet the heavy favorites across the board. In the opening race, a maiden claiming, his horse finished dead last. In the second, jockey Tyler Baze salvaged a show from the back of the pack, but it only paid $2.20, or in Peter’s case $110.00 on a three hundred dollar win/place/show wager. The next three races he played bets he thought were good values: an eleven to one shot that started the day 9 to 2, a six to one shot that was originally listed at 4 to 1 and a morning line 3 to 2 favorite that rose to 7 to 2 by post time. None of these picks finished better than third. It was at this point, after several Bloody Marys, that he became desperate to catch up, playing only long shots and exotic wagers for the last four races. A 30 to 1 shot placed in the seventh race, which garnered $1,855.80. Otherwise, there were no payouts. At the end of the afternoon he had lost over seventeen hundred dollars. Thoroughly dejected and defeated, Peter left with his tail squarely between his legs.

Losing stung more than winning manifested joy: this was a truth that he had always struggled with when bad times came. And although the amount involved on this day had been relatively small compared to some of the really tough losses of the past, for some reason this defeat hurt more than usual. When he did the math it was ridiculous to feel downtrodden about his luck since he had left the Bay Area. He was still down less than twenty five hundred dollars – a pittance in relation to the amount he had bet; less, in fact, than he was down upon leaving the Sands Regency, where he had been cheered at the thought of having got off so cheaply. Furthermore, he estimated that the total expenses of the trip totaled less than a third of the gaming losses. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed an extended vacation for so little. Nonetheless, a crossroads had been reached. Overindulgence was taking its toll. The thrill was gone. He determined not to gamble for a little while, if only to heighten his future excitement.

Upon reaching this decision, a feeling of relief and happiness settled upon him. He drove back toward central LA without a care, his worries having evaporated like a shallow pool of water in the desert sun. But it only took a few minutes for this relief at having relinquished the burden of gambling to transform into a new, urgent craving. It had been several days since he had gotten high, he suddenly remembered. And he then literally, coldly and deliberately thought these exact words in his mind: “some drugs will fill the void created by the lack of action very nicely.” A second later he acknowledged the illness inherent in such notions, and accepted that on some level he was a chronically sick person. But who wasn’t nowadays? At least he could admit it, he reassured himself.

***

East Hollywood is a good place to go if you want to get high. For lodging, Peter chose a run down Day’s Inn not far from an apartment building where he had once stayed on a weeklong drug bender with college friends. He remembered the location of the alley from the old days. And he would still recognize the faces. It didn’t matter if they were black, brown, yellow or white, he would be able to locate the nervous, wide-eyed, nocturnal countenance of the street pushers. Any real drug user knows, regardless of race or economic background. It comes with the territory.

He sat in the hotel room, watching television and pacing back and forth impatiently until eleven o’clock. The dealers never hit the ground until then, but they would stay on until just before sunrise. Walking was the best way to get around without risking police intercession, but out of practice with the street scene, Peter stood out like a sore thumb as he skulked suspiciously down Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding avenues.

It took a little while to find the old alley. Once he did though, it was obvious that he was in the right place. He saw the shaded, hooded faces and the attendant rasorial junkies, lurking around the source of their feed. The air was heavy with electricity and the metallic taste of chemical sweat. Nervous eyes followed him as he proceeded carefully into the gloom. Everyone present knew he was a stranger and regarded him with suspicion.

Finally an emaciated black guy wearing a grey sweater approached. His whisper was almost imperceptible.
“Hey man. Whatcha need, homie?”
Peter was anxious, but necessity propelled him forward. “Some blow.”
“Blow?
“Yeah. Coke.”
“You in the wrong place, man. No powder around here. We got some good rock, though. Primo. I’ll hook you up.”
Peter had freebased cocaine a few times years ago, and enjoyed it enough, but had never tried crack. It was basically the same thing, he reasoned. “If you can’t get any blow then the rock will have to do,” he replied.

The dude scurried around the alley, talking to several of the hooded gents. Peter immediately realized that he was dealing with a middle man and not the source. He knew what this would mean once the drugs had been procured. Momentarily his guy returned, holding something in his hands. It was three small white rocks. He handed them to Peter.

“That’s twenty’s worth,” he said, sweat pouring down his forehead and down into his cavernous cheeks.
Peter didn’t have a clue about the fair market price for crack, but knew that he was probably being ripped off. It hardly mattered. “I guess that’ll do,” he replied, handing over a bill in exchange for the drugs.
When the man ran off to transfer the money to the dealer, Peter turned and quickly walked away, hoping to escape his inevitable company. It was a futile effort. A second later a tap on the shoulder made it clear he was not to get off so easily.

“That was a good deal, my man,” he said. “Real smooth. What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say,” Peter replied in his most courteous tone.
“I gets it. Why take the chance, am I right? I’ll just call you salt and you can call me pepper.”
“What?”
“You know, cause you white and I’m black. Salt and pepper – go together on every dinner table. And I know you about to spread some vittles out for you and me. Why, to act contrarily would be very rude, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” Peter replied tersely, but with a surrendering smile.
“I knew you were all right.”
“But I’ve got no pipe, no fire and am a long way from where I stay,” he lied. “What can you do about that?”
“Everything! I got my shit hidden in a good stash spot. We gonna get high as fuck.”

Peter followed along as his new acquaintance led the way down a series of streets that led to an empty lot. In a corner of the property was an abandoned warehouse. Pepper approached the building in a familiar manner and dislodged a piece of corrugated siding from the wall which exposed a small hole in the edifice just large enough for a person to crawl through uncomfortably.

They sat down immediately upon entering the completely dark space. Peter could hear his companion fumbling with several items that sounded as if they were contained in a wood box. He could also hear the faint, high-pitched communications and movements of the scurrying resident rodents. In a moment, a light flashed as a Sterno can was ignited, illuminating the walls and surrounding metal containers in a warm, flickering glow.

“Gimme a rock,” Pepper instructed.
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled one of the pieces out. He handed it over.
“Mind if I hit this first, Salt?”
“That’s fine.”

Pepper carefully placed the kernel of crack in a glass pipe that looked disturbingly as if it had been constructed from discarded sections of a high school chemistry set. His bloodshot eyes bulged as he applied the torch lighter to the hardened chemicals, which hissed and bubbled as he inhaled. When he was finished, he tilted his head backward and held in the noxious smoke as long as he could. His extended exhale was the auditory exemplar of satisfaction. He passed the pipe over.

“It’s real nice, Salt, real nice. Now you give it a rip.”
Peter did so, inhaling slowly and carefully at first, but gradually with more force. Soon his lungs were engorged. He couldn’t hold the smoke for long, and exploded in coughs upon release. The drug left an aftertaste of soap in his mouth.

“Hee ha, ha,” Pepper laughed maniacally, “yeah, you feelin’ it now.”

And so he was. It began as a nauseous sensation in his stomach. Soon the queasiness evolved into a pleasant tingling that reminded him of the fluttering wings of a dozen butterflies. This feeling gradually rose up within him until it was centered in his chest. An uncontrollable smile spread across his face. His front teeth and the roof of his mouth went totally numb.

“Gimme another rock,” Pepper instructed, his hands clutching at empty air.

They smoked it and then finished off the third and final specimen. For a long while, perhaps as much as forty-five minutes, they sat silent, transfixed at the interplay of light and shadow on the walls. As the high gradually receded, they determined to return to the alley to procure more of the drug. Upon leaving the shelter, Pepper was careful to replace the siding as it had been before.

As they turned around they were unexpectedly confronted by two black men dressed in garish sweat suits. One of the men, not less than six foot three inches tall and weighing probably two hundred and fifty pounds, grabbed Peter by the shirt and pushed him up against the building. From out of the corner of his eye, Peter observed Pepper slinking off into the night. Betrayed, he thought.

“What the hell you doin’ around here, motha fucka?” the large man inquired while his smaller cohort simply stared, smiling amusedly.
“Nothing man. Just hanging out,” Peter stammered in reply.
His confronter looked him in the eye. “Shit nigga,” he chortled to his buddy. “This white boy’s been smokin’. Don’t you know you ain’t supposed to be gettin’ high in our hood, white boy?”
“I know that now.”
“We could fuck you up and take all your shit.,” the man replied, his grip tightening around Peter’s neck. “Nobody cares about what happens to junkies and crack heads down here. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll just tax ya. Give me all your money and I’ll let you bounce.”

Peter reached into his pocket, which held close to a thousand dollars. Not a bad score, he thought ironically. It could have been worse, though. He had left several grand more back in the room.

Just as he had placed his hand around the money which was rolled up in his pocket, a metallic flash came out of the darkness and struck the would-be mugger on the head with a dull thud. The giant was felled, crumpling to the ground with all the force of his massive dead weight. Out of the darkness came Pepper, holding a large plumbing wrench in his hand and hopping from side to side energetically.

“What the fuck?” the smaller of the two men exhorted as he stood dumbfounded over his captain. “You gonna help this cracker, man?”
“This cracker’s my homie,” Pepper responded. “And if you don’t want some of the same, I suggest you back the fuck off.”

Spontaneously, the duo fled the scene, Peter’s heart pounding from the dangerous cocktail of fear, physical exertion and crack cocaine. But his accomplice was thrilled, sprinting like an intoxicated gazelle down streets and alleys, crying out triumphantly, “Salt and Pepper, Salt and Pepper.”

After some time they ducked behind a dumpster in a parking lot just off Hollywood Boulevard, both panting heavily.

“That was all right,” Pepper said. “Let’s go get some more shit.”

Peter realized that he was only a few blocks from the hotel, and figured that he had exhausted eight of his nine lives already. “Naah. I’m gonna get going,” he replied. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the wad of cash and handed it to his guardian angel. “I want you to have this.”

Pepper fingered through the bills and soon realized the enormity of his windfall. “My homie,” he said reflectively, his head shaking in amazement. “You realize I ain’t held this kinda money in ten years? I’m gonna stay high for weeks!”

“Just make sure you have fun,” Peter said. He then turned and walked away.