I could see Robbie through the windows of Denny's as he walked back through. I could see him talking to himself and shaking his head as he made his way from the back of the house. With each stride he took his pace grew considerably quicker. I saw his figure roam past the dining hall windows, flinging open the door w excessive force, and then scramble back into the truck huffing and puffing like a drama queen. He hopped back into the drivers seat and it was more than apparent that he was bothered, but I just ignored the obvious and decided it was best to not speak for a bit. The light precipitation had stopped and now a thick mugginess was cradled in the atmosphere. This new stream of silence compounded the awkwardness in the truck. I just focused on the humming of the wet wheels interacting with the paved highway. Robbie would be chemically soothed calmly soon.
About an hour later we were back at my house, and my family wasn't there. For everyone to be out of the house, and even better to know that they were far from me was sweet. If I were lucky enough to actually know a basic window of time that they might return was even sweeter. I remember coming home on many occasions, seeing that no one was there and then calling my mom with some dumb question that usually entailed me being curious about what we were having for dinner later on that evening. In reality I was only trying to find out where she was (how far away she was) and when she might possibly be returning. Usually they were five minutes down the street at work and my mom would pop in unannounced. She had me caught up many times, usually she just discovered me smoking pot, but occasionally she found me insanely drunk at home when I shouldn't be, in the middle of the day. I remember one afternoon having about eight of my friends over and we were hitting that ganja in the backyard, my mom pulls up in the driveway, one of us hid the pipe rather stealth-like, slipping it up the sleeve of their jacket, but regardless she knew that we were engaging in illicit marijuana smoking, in frustration she chastised us, "I know exactly what y'all are doing back here, I wonder why y'all are all standing out there in a circle like that?!"
We arrived back from the dope house and as the car lurched close enough to visibly make out that there were no cars in the driveway I felt so relieved. When we stepped inside the front door I was 100% re-assured that no one, not even any of my little brothers were present. I then felt even freer. I really longed to fully enjoy this new drug experience with no interruptions. Between the two of us we had a little over a hundred dollars worth of 'boy'(heroin) and 'girl' (cocaine). The purchase of the substances were made from a dope house in a predominantly black part of Ft. Worth, and they cut up coke and heroin at their own discretion. They packed them into little capsules, clear capsules similar to what certain types of vitamins are packed into. The main source usually came from Mexicans at the root of all the drug sales in Texas. The more hands that most drugs pass through then the more times that they are cut, which simply means the drugs become weaker. Later on I would discover that though there were many dope houses dealing in 'caps' which did have potentially stronger doses, the really good shit came straight from the source, bought from an individual usually of mexicano descent.
Robbie had to take care of business before he would bother with me at all. I needed to be shown the way of the needle game. Robbie was very intentional in every movement during this swift procedure. The mind of a dope fiend utilizes the majority of his focus in scoring heroin and then hyper-focuses what focus and energies left on getting his 'rig' (hypo-dermic needle) made up proper. Wherever all your necessary equipment is stashed is the first place your feet shuffle towards upon arriving back home from scoring(many times this is all done in a car but it is dangerous; unless you are really dope sick this is not smart; a junky though may not come to this conclusion until he is arrested once or twice shooting up in a car). A glass of water (or a bit of gin if you want to get crazy), needle, spoon, lighter, some cotton, plus the heroin, and your set. This is the traditional set-up, and when one or two is absent from the equation for whatever reason is when you see the creativity of a junky in it's true form. The black-tar is put on the spoon (or on the bottum half of a coke can ripped away which functions better than most spoons), a personally determined amount of water is drawn up into the syringe, then squirted back out onto the spoon, heat, mix, and stir with the needles un-attached plunger. The small piece of cotton(usually obtained from a new un-smoked cig' butt) is plopped down into the black solution of opiates, the tip of the needle then uses the cotton to filter the dope into the needle. It was almost in-describable that first time I shot heroin.... bam-bi-badawal-bing-BANG! INJECTION and LIFTOFF! THOSE SWEET WARMTH WAVES SWALLOW AND SATURATE EVERY BIT OF NEGATIVITY THAT RESIDES IN YOU and IN EVERY EXTENSION CRAFTED FROM THE MIND'S VAST IMAGININGS! IF ONLY HEROIN WAS SOLELY PLEASURABLE and NO HELLISH PAIN, DEPRAVITY, DEPRESSION, or DEATH WAS ASSOCIATED.....
