Cleaning up

The room was a pit. A real shithole. One lamp without a shade stood on a table big enough to seat at least 8 for dinner. Three chairs edge in to the scene, coming from different angles. A moth bumps and bumps at the bulb.

Pizza boxes and Chinese take-out containers are scattered on the scarred wooden floor, and the walls are covered with addicts. Male or female does not matter a lot. This is a heroin spot, not a crack house where the locals earn their rock with their mouth or ass or whatever sells.

Here all is quiet and all is peaceful. I'm propped up in a corner, having just fixed . Good dope. I am nodding a bit and the room has acquired that friendly glow heroin gives. The light that does exist is for the recent arrivals, and one has just walked in. Looking up I see a young man about 20 years old. He looks dope sick, and his eyes are riveted on the table where clean syringes lay, right beside a cup of water and a number of bent spoons. There is also bleach and paper towels for the health concious.

He is in a hurry, and is tearing open the bag of heroin as he sits down. With nothing better to do I watch as he empties one, two three,and now four bags into a cooker. That's a lot of dope. This stuff is good and he does not have the look of a veteran.

The citizen in me rears his head.
"Hey man, this shit is strong ya know?"
He looks up at me with huge pupils and nods.
"It's ok man. I've done this shit before yo."

Opening a syringe he sucks up water from a bottle he pulls out from his pocket. His attention is on the prep of his fix. I keep watching, not convinced he knows what the fuck is up. What's that 'yo'shit about? He's not even a fucking brother. The nod catches me and the next time I look up he is licking the blood from his arm and has that faraway look in his eye. I can see the tension go out of his body like a balloon losing air.

He cleans up, spraying blood and water over his jeans and the floor, then staggers to a corner to enjoy the drug. I nod again, and am brought out of it by a thump I feel as much as hear. My new friend has made a lip stand on the wooden floor.

Looking around I see that no one else is paying any attention. Crawling over on my hands and knees I try and make contact.
"Hey man, wake up. Hey guy. This is not cool. they do not like people od'ing on the premises"
No response.
Arriving beside him I rise to a squat, and give him a shake.
"Wake the fuck up dude".

Perhaps it is the loudness of my voice or the urgency in the tone but a couple of other locals are coming to and getting interested in the action. One of them says 'Aw hit, another one" and heads for the door and the room where the dealer and his security hang out.

Now I am motivated. Rolling him over I see the vomit hanging off his mouth. This is not a good sign. His eyes are rolled up into his forehead. I check his carotid and find what I expect. There is no pulse. This fucker is gone, but it is nothing a little injection from the ambulance people would not fix.

I take out my cell phone and hit 911, but as I press the send button a foot lashes out and kicks my phone out of my hand. It is the security guy.

"No calls man" he says, holding a knife out to reinforce his viewpoint. He looks hard at me and repeats himself.
"No calls until we get the guy out of the apartment".
I stand up and retrieve my phone, then look at he guy with the knife.
I say "I'll grab his feet" and reach down to do so.
The kicker is no rocket scientist but knows a potential profit when he sees one. Bending down he rifles through all the guys pockets and checks his socks and ass to be sure he has not suitcased something of value.
Disappointed he nods at me and takes the hands

Two minutes later the od is on the sidewalk in an alley and I make the call.
I do not want to be here when the Man arrives so I book. About a block later I hear the siren and read the name on the liscence in the wallet I took.
"Good Luck" I whisper to that name and face, removing a fair score of cash and throwing the rest away.